Doing One's Duty
by Emerald Embers
Summary: Domesticity isn't all it's cracked up to be. Vorador/Janos


**Title**: Doing One's Duty

**Rating**: PG-12

**Warnings**: Bad language, mild yaoi references and some black humour.

**Pairings**: Vorador/Janos

**Summary**: Domesticity isn't all it's cracked up to be

**Disclaimer**: Non-profit fanfiction, this lot aren't mine.

**Prompt**: Springkink 21st - Legacy of Kain, Janos/Vorador: siring - "a fledgeling is dependent on their sire".

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Janos Audron was a patient man, but sometimes even he had his limits.

"God _damn it_," he growled, mindful of the blasphemy but figuring he could make amends for it later when he wasn't fending off a swarm of blackfly. Hopefully when the messiah finally came he wouldn't be interested in drinking from the blood fountains because the flies had left a thick black sludge of discarded larvae behind that could turn the boldest of stomachs. Never mind the cold, never mind goodness knew how many wards or protective spells he set up, the tiny black bastards _always_ found a way in and the only way to get them under any sort of control was to blast them with fire and hope for the best.

It might not have tested his temper quite so thoroughly were it not for the fact he already had a sickly fledgling to deal with. Vorador's coma had been distressing but it was a calm sort of distress after the initial panic; now he was dealing with some sort of made-vampire influenza, cleaning up vomit and forced to feed Vorador by his own wrist in between assuring him that the fact he'd woken from the coma with clawed hands and pale eyes was probably normal for a made vampire when, truth be told, _no one_ knew.

Still, he was Vorador's sire - and usually friend, sometimes a lover. Loyalty through sickness came with the territory. One of the major frustrations was how little he could to ease Vorador's sickness - hot baths for sore muscles, steam to clear catarrh, damp cloths to soothe a fever were all out of the question given the bizarre sensitivity to water that had come within weeks of Vorador being turned. Heightened hearing seemed to render his headaches even worse and, all in all, Janos felt a little useless because there was no precedent as a guideline to treat his fledgling.

.

Janos kept the analogy about suckling young to himself as Vorador fed from his slit wrist. He'd never been fond of hunting, it went against his sense of honor, but keeping his own blood levels up enough that Vorador didn't drain him dry was taking easily four humans for every three days; he hoped the increased feeding didn't leave him in less control of his addiction at the end of this sickness.

At least the vomiting seemed to have eased up. He thanked god that he'd never taken to carpeting the aerie, else cleaning might have been an even more vulgar task; it seemed as if Vorador's body had become aware of some lingering humanity and tried to expel it through every means possible. Whatever remained now in his systems seemed content to sweat itself out, and changing the bedsheets was a simple enough process after decades of practise.

"You look better," Janos soothed, keeping his voice low. He'd attempted Whispering earlier in the illness but that just seemed to aggravate the condition, perhaps because of its toll on the nervous system.

Vorador pulled his fangs out of Janos' wrist, licked the wound clean before allowing it to heal. Even if scarring had mostly ceased since his becoming a vampire, Janos had noticed the area where a scar ought to be could feel more sensitive for days on end after visibly healing, and found himself flinching a little when Vorador's tongue passed over the skin again. "I feel better, thank god," Vorador announced before shifting up in the bed and blinking at Janos. "You haven't been looking after yourself."

"Hm?" Janos touched his hands to his hair, but it felt fine - he had been keeping it clean, would have been foolish to do otherwise given he kept heading down to the lake to wash bedsheets anyway. Granted he hadn't cut it in a while, but still, it was a low maintenance style.

"Your wings, Janos," Vorador laughed, the sound decidedly more breathless and weak than usual.

That much, at least, made sense. He had been flying more but hadn't found time to care for feathers dislodged during the frequent flights. "They work fine without grooming but I'll do it tonight if it will keep you happy," he teased.

"You'll do it now if you're after my happiness."

"Brat," Janos scolded, shifting so that his back faced Vorador and extending his right wing enough to let his fledgling sort through the largest of the feathers, seeing as that task required the least manual dexterity. "One wing. I'll take care of the other later."

"You spoil me," Vorador teased back before stroking down the surface of the wing, smoothing it to make the out of place feathers more obvious. "I'll pay you back for helping me as soon as I'm out of this damned bed."

"I'm your sire, I'm only doing my duty."

"Mm, but you do your duty very well," Vorador insisted before pulling on two of the longest feathers to work out which one was loose, plucking the offending item as soon as he was certain. "I'm going to groom you properly, cut your hair, give you a backrub and then I'm going to make you scream obscenities."

Janos smirked, looked over his wing at Vorador's thoughtful expression. "That sounds familiar." Their first time had gone similarly and Vorador seemed interested in as many repeat performances as possible.

Vorador looked up and met Janos' eyes, his own suddenly dark with promise. "Seeing you undone ruined me. It's not my fault if I want to drive you wild." Rough claws swept out several smaller dead feathers and enough trapped dust to be embarrassing.

"Whose fault is it then?" Janos asked, leaning into Vorador's touch and lightly going through the down on his side of the wing with his left fingers, trying to ignore the slight edge of arousal associated with grooming. While grooming wasn't inherently an erotic experience it _was_ intimate, and given Vorador's normal appetites certain reactions to intimacy had become somewhat ingrained.

Vorador's illness had stolen smart answers so he settled for a quick, mean-spirited bite before letting Janos' wing go and focusing on his hands. "I think I'm getting used to these."

"Mm." Janos folded his wing up, turned to take Vorador's hands in his own for a moment and trace the dark tips of his claws. "Until you've had more practise I'll be oiling myself."

Vorador made a low, pleased sound of agreement. "As long as I get to watch."

"But of course," Janos assured, rising to his feet and heading for the door. "Oh - when you're feeling better, remind me about the forge. I'll need your assistance."

"Slave driver." Janos briefly considered throwing composure to the wind and tackling his fledgling for that but opted against when he considered the likely results of sudden pressure on Vorador's stomach. Still, he missed the entertainment value of having a healthy fledgling as company. "We'll see. Sleep well."

Vorador settled back down into the sheets, picking up one of the loose feathers lying on the bed and toying with it. "I'd sleep better with company."

"You'll have company once I have time to spend on activities other than looking after you and the aerie."

.

Janos closed the door and slumped back against the wall outside, allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief. It seemed his fledgling had recovered for the most part, along with his hedonistic tastes, but it had been tiring to look after someone when he had no idea when or even if he would recover. Siring was difficult even after the process of turning, the responsibility for a life you had created - at least in part - draining whenever that life came under threat. He'd almost have preferred to be the one with the illness, only that he couldn't pass the responsibility on.

A low hum still buzzed distantly at the fountain he'd have to fly to, reminding him of his duties to the aerie in maintaining some semblance of hygiene, even if their own bodies seemed more of a threat than the environment around them.

Janos' stomach clenched painfully as the hunger from being drained settled in and he swallowed down nausea, wondered if he should prioritise clearing the aerie of bugs or going on another hunt.

Of course, as his one tidied wing reminded him, there were alternative activities he could turn to, but procrastination was a blessing only fledglings and children could enjoy.

His stomach gurgled again in protest, and he took it as a sign.

God only knew what reputation these hunts had earned him.

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The End


End file.
